Smoke still curled from the ruins when the dust finally settled.
Elian stood in the middle of it all, breathing in the sharp, metallic scent of blood and gunpowder, feeling the broken ground beneath his boots.
The farmhouse, their home, was wounded.
Walls scorched.
Windows shattered.
The fields where children once played were now torn with craters and blood.
But they were alive.
Somehow, by stubbornness and sheer, furious will — they had survived.
--
Kael limped toward him, blood smeared across her temple but grinning through cracked lips.
Maren staggered in from the outer fence, one arm hanging uselessly at her side, but alive.
Asher clung to Liora, dirt and tears streaking his face.
Even Rafe — old, battered Rafe — was there, leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch, coughing but smiling that crooked, stubborn smile.
"We did it," Kael rasped, voice rough with disbelief.
Elian nodded once, feeling the hollowness yawning inside him.
Victory tasted like ash.
He moved among the bodies — the dead enemies first, stripping weapons, gathering supplies.
And then the others.
The ones they had lost.
Three of the field hands who had taken up arms to defend their home — dead.
One of the older women from the neighboring farm who had sheltered with them — gone.
Elian knelt by each one, closing their eyes, murmuring a soft prayer.
Not for gods — he had long since stopped believing in those — but for memory.
For honor.
For the cost of survival.
---
By sunset, they had built the pyres.
One for the fallen friends.
One for the enemies.
Separate.
Always separate.
There were lines even war could not blur.
The fires crackled and roared, eating the dead, sending their ashes into the bruised sky.
Maren stood watch, rifle still slung across her back, face carved from granite.
Kael held Asher close, whispering soft things into his hair.
Elian stood alone, feeling the weight of command settle heavier on his shoulders than ever before.
Rafe approached, hands deep in his pockets.
He smelled of smoke and whiskey and old regrets.
"You're a stubborn fool, you know that?" Rafe said gruffly.
Elian almost smiled.
"Takes one to know one."
They stood in silence a long moment, watching the flames.
Then Rafe said quietly, "This ain't over. Cartel won't forget this bloody nose you gave 'em."
"I know."
"You need to move. Gather strength. Find allies. Or you'll get crushed the next time they come."
Elian nodded slowly.
The time for hiding was over.
---
Later that night, they gathered inside the battered remains of the farmhouse.
The roof leaked.
The doors hung crooked.
But it was still theirs.
Candles flickered, casting long shadows across tired, grim faces.
"We can't stay," Maren said flatly, breaking the heavy silence.
"They'll come back. Worse. Harder."
Kael, one hand bandaged tightly, shook her head stubbornly.
"This is home."
"Home's no good if you're dead."
They bickered — voices rising, tempers fraying.
Fear made people sharp-edged.
Made even family dangerous.
Elian let them argue for a moment, then slammed his fist onto the table.
The sound cracked like a whip.
Silence fell.
"Enough," he said.
He rose slowly, feeling every ache, every bruise.
"Maren's right. We can't stay and survive. Not like this."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"But we won't scatter. We move together. We find others like us. Build something bigger. Stronger. So next time... they fear us."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Kael nodded.
Maren grunted something that might have been agreement.
Even Asher raised his chin a little higher.
Family.
Stronger together.
Always.
--
The door creaked open.
Everyone tensed — hands flying to weapons instinctively.
A woman stood there, silhouetted against the night.
Tall.
Draped in a long, dark coat.
Hair like spilled ink.
Eyes that glinted like obsidian knives.
"Nice speech," she drawled, stepping into the room like she owned it.
"Who the hell are you?" Maren barked, raising her gun.
The woman smiled, slow and dangerous.
"Name's Selena."
Her gaze flicked over them — sharp, assessing.
"And if you're serious about fighting back... I might just have a proposition for you."
---
They didn't trust her — not at first.
How could they?
Trust was earned in blood and fire, not bought with clever words.
But Selena wasn't selling hope.
She was offering something far rarer.
Information.
"The Revenant Cartel's not invincible," she said, pacing like a caged predator.
"They've got enemies too. Hidden ones. Waiting for someone crazy enough to strike first."
She tossed a battered map onto the table.
Not hand-drawn like Rafe's.
This one was detailed — precise.
"There's a gathering happening two weeks from now. Important players. Vulnerable targets."
She leaned in, voice dropping to a purr.
"You hit them there... you cut the head off the snake."
Maren narrowed her eyes.
"And what do you get out of it?"
Selena's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Let's just say the Cartel and I have... unfinished business."
There was something hard and ugly beneath her beauty.
A broken thing.
Elian recognized it.
He carried the same thing inside him.
---
After Selena left — promising to return at dawn with more details — the group erupted into argument again.
"She's lying," Maren snarled. "She'll sell us out the second it benefits her."
"Maybe," Kael said quietly.
"But maybe she's the weapon we need."
Elian said nothing for a long time.
He stared at the map.
At the thin, blood-streaked line that led from survival to vengeance.
Rafe slumped in a chair, cleaning a battered revolver.
"Sometimes," he said, voice dry, "the devil you know beats the devil you don't."
Elian looked up.
Eyes cold.
Clear.
"We're not trusting her," he said.
"We're using her."
The next morning came sharp and cold.
Mist clung to the ground, wrapping the broken fields in a ghostly embrace.
The farmhouse stood battered but defiant against the rising sun.
Selena arrived as promised — astride a sleek black motorcycle that growled like a living thing.
She tossed Elian a leather satchel.
Inside: documents, maps, coded letters.
Proof.
A lifetime's worth of hatred forged into weapons.
"Clock's ticking," she said, swinging her leg off the bike.
"You in? Or you planning to rot here until the Cartel grinds you into the dirt?"
Elian tightened the strap across his chest.
Checked his rifle.
Met her gaze without blinking.
"We're in."
---
By midday, they were packed.
What little they had — weapons, supplies, memories — crammed into battered trucks and salvaged bikes.
Asher clung to Liora, wrapped tight in a blanket.
Maren drove one truck, Kael the other.
Rafe rode shotgun, muttering curses about his aching knees.
Elian stood for a moment at the edge of the farm, staring at the place that had been their home.
The fence.
The fields.
The grave markers.
Everything they had fought for.
Everything they had lost.
"We'll be back," he promised softly.
Then he turned.
Climbed into the lead truck.
And without looking back, they rolled out — a battered, broken family heading into an uncertain future.
Toward war.
Toward vengeance.
Toward hope.
The road stretched out before them — long, cracked, and unforgiving.
Perfect.
---